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AN old man sat in an old wood chair, in front of his old gray house; His hair had changed to a silver hue, and reached to his old gray blouse; And I noticed his cane was handy by, which he usually brought along As a staff in life which his progress changed, from prose to a sort o' song. His back was bent with years of toil, but still he did not com- plain, For he looked about and many saw who were crippled and much in pain; And reasoned out, ill a wisdom-way, that many were worse than he In a physical test, and he thought it best to study wisdom's tree. Old pussy was giving her tender purr; a plea for a gentle stroke, Which he kindly gave with a soothing word--in a trembling voice he spoke, For his heart was kind and welled with joy, and in his childish way Placed a volume of thoughts about my heart, which time drives not away. The old house-dog in a restful nap, with his nose between his paws, Was chasing perhaps some bunny fleet, in his dreams, as nature's laws Have indexed and taught for ages past, that the hare is the hunter's game, And the constant companion, the good old dog, from his primer reads the same. A robin was hopping about the yard, an angle-worm to see To peck and pull from its clinging place, beneath the apple- tree; But she saw me not, as to her task she bent in an earnest way Nor the gray old man, with vision dim, for he dozed on that summer's day. And I hastened along on the road of life, although it seemed so slow, Till backward I glanced and saw afar the roads that I used to know. But the trees were cut, the springs were dry and the summer- time was past And I sat in the chair that the old man sat, the time I had seen him last. |
